


And She Cried

by Miandraden1



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Ambiguity, Ambiguous/Open Ending, As in hey the Warden didnt have the choice to say that or do this, F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Loss of Parent(s), Love, No Underage Sex, One Shot, So yeah, Suicidal Thoughts (?), its minor, no beta we die like men, or this slight detail didnt happen, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 19:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miandraden1/pseuds/Miandraden1
Summary: “It was scary at first for me, too.” He says, his voice soft.She doesn’t want to tell him she prefers these nightmares a millionth times over the images of her nephew’s blood. Over the imaginings of Fergus’s horror at finding out, or his cry of pain as a sword digs into his back.“Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate it.”She feels there’s going to be so little sympathy left to the world.So she holds onto this.





	And She Cried

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lykegenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/gifts), [skogr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/gifts).

> I was inspired by skogr's writing style and by Lykegenia's representation of Alistair. These writers reminded me of many things I felt and thought throughout the game, but in a manner that deserved something that was my own, rather than a simple comment on their works.

Being a noble daughter, she thought, was a strange dichotomy between feeling ridiculously privileged and like a prisoner with no right to complain. Her circumstances became more and more concerning the older she grew. She was quite comfortable, yes, but she realized someone was always suffering for her accommodations. There was a maid who scurried about her room, always cleaning and trying to go unnoticed. There were women washing her clothes who would deliver them with raw hands. And servers unwilling to meet her eyes. Outgrowing her bedtime came with the dubious opportunity of heading to the kitchens to hear the head cook screaming unholy murder for the day’s performance. All these people who quietly surrounded her, and it had never even occurred her to say thank you. 

Gratitude was meant to be expressed to other people. 

Lords coming to eagerly present their sons to her, regardless of how uncomfortable they made her feel. Girls who acted, with condescending smiles, as though they were enemies. Boys who half the time spent wooing her and half the time judging if she was to their liking. They seemed to think any interesting topic of conversation was way above her. Fergus makes good work of subtly saving her when it begins feeling like a bit much. “For propriety’s sake, my dear.” Her father utters. 

“Why do I need to consider any of these- men? Are we not the noble house of most influence next to the royal family themselves?” She asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’ll have to marry at some point, pup.” That sooner was preferable to later went without saying. 

If it was with any of those men, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She kept her mouth shut. She was 15 years old. Anything she said now, without a real fight in the horizon, was a moot point. Regardless, she had to be gracious with people who had done nothing to deserve it. 

She decided to be a little more consequent to her reality. 

She intercepted the maid, subtly, of course, with all the grace taught to her at court. The girl still seemed scared half to death. “You know I will not be angered by your presence in my chambers, do you not? Why, it’s your work that makes them habitable!”

The elven girl bowed her head. “I don’ wish to disturb, m’lady.”

This had not been the desired reaction, and she used, instead, honesty. “You take a lot of problems off my shoulders. I don’t imagine you could disturb me any. And I suppose all I wanted you to know is that I’m grateful.” And this time, the girl met her eyes.

Her name was Laena and she was her first friend.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shock, she thought. Shock it must be. Her father- Maker, her father- he spoke of soldiers, death and shock. Not often enough to be unhealthy- by Andraste, dead, what does that even mean? She glanced at reality wearily; fade take her - but often enough for her to know. The banners were gone, Highever was also gone, for all it was worth. Laena, was she gone also? Had she been on duty that night? She worked all days she could and then some. That night- was it yesterday? Was everything fine a day before yesterday? A Blight, a conscription, Highever, Fergus, father, mother- did that make her a Tyerna? Of what? No, Grey Wardens renounce titles.

And not a single tear.

It was shock, surely, but did she care so little? She thought she cared more, what else is there to care for?

She cares more, she is sure, she simply cannot feel it right now.

A leaf brushes her cheek, she jerks. Duncan glances back. She wants to hate him, but logically he did the best thing he could do. (Why does she care for logic? How is it worth any?) She would have died- which, wasn't supposed to be good. No- they wanted her to live, to survive and fight. 

The thought should give her resolve, bring her up from a terrible low. This is not the case. Each idea was crashing, but rather lifelessly. She can only keep staring at Duncan's back, following his direction. He was her superior now- she never had superior’s before, Cailan was distant and abstract, his father had been meaningless to a child like her (or she meaningless to him), and her father-  
-was her father, not a superior.

She should be crying.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She wants to laugh, hysterically, she wants to throw her head back and giggle. Nothing mattered anyways, what is a laugh at this point? 

Is she a monster? 

But this man- this boy, older than her, yes, but a boy surely. Like she is a girl, a little girl. (That is disconcerting, surely girls are meant to keep their families?) This boy is insulting and mocking with wit, the grumpy one, he says. It’s more of a defense, she’s aware, but she can't find any malice. A joke. As if the world was not crumbling. As if her world had not crumbled already.

"One thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." He says, and its full of sarcasm and amusement in a camp full of silence and fear and anger. 

And yes, that is exactly it. And she still wants to cry, even though she can't, by the Maker, why can't she cry? But a part of her is delighted, and it’s not as perverse as her urge to laugh. She forgives her lack of tears, only for a second and it won't last, but she does. She doesn't understand anything, the Maker is silent, and he doesn't know, so she lets the smile crack. "I know exactly what you mean."

And he is so merry about being a Warden- she bears the cause now too, but it was an afterthought, really. She feels it makes sense to ask the questions he prompts, because this is her duty now, one he explains well, and its the first thing to make sense in a long time. 

Intellect shines in his eyes. 

And then it’s about Duncan, and he's grateful, he's so grateful. 

"Maybe he thought you would be useful." 

His eyes are guarded for the first time since she has known him (which is a few minutes, but enough to somehow not expect that look.) "Or maybe" he responds, the words drawn out just enough to get the point across, "he is a good man." 

And yes, he is right. Duncan is a good man. He saved her life. But she forgot what gratefulness was. Why, when everything to be grateful about was gone, it seemed ridiculous. But people do good things for others, because good things matter to people (no matter how quickly they can be snatched away), and she had forgotten. 

She wonders if the Maker is holding her soul in the skies, the reason behind this strange detachment, a hostage until she achieves understanding.

At that moment, it feels like a little of herself is given back. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The goblet in presented to her. Again, she wonders if she doesn't care, about herself, the man who convulsed to death or the one executed. But this is just another thing of duty, so she finds it quite fine. 

When she wakes up and she is not dead, she doesn't feel relief.

Alistair does that for her. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, he needs two grey wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?”

There is bitterness there. Somehow that makes him more real, even if, at the time, she doesn’t understand the reasons behind that emotion.

It’s nothing to dwell on, then. She wants to fight too, though not for glory or excitement. 

It seems easier. 

But then, it’s about the king ordering he dance the Remigold and his refusal. And she is smiling again. 

He would dance for her, if the dress is pretty enough. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now he is in shock. 

He was trained as a templar once. These apostates saved them. She takes the lesson he gave when levelheaded and tries to be grateful. 

Tries, because if the world was crumbling before, they are now standing in the rubble. 

The Grey Wardens, his family, are gone (like mother, like father, like Fergus, like-), all except for them both. And they barely count. 

They barely count, but they do. And she thinks it’s quite convenient she always thought the distinction of denotation relevant. 

She sees his uncertainty and chooses for both of them, because it was easier when someone else was choosing, before. When she was in shock. And she is not sure she is out of it, or in a stage of the process, but now it feels easier to choose. She makes the choices based on the duty he already explained. They have a Blight to stop, and they'll probably die, but what else is there? 

She is secretly not that sure the treaties will work. 

Morrigan offers to help, or Flemeth offers her over, and yes, they'll all most certainly die. But her duty is to go stop a Blight, whatever means necessary, Alistair said, and letting volunteers walk to their doom alongside her was the logical path to that purpose. They were only two. Three makes for a slightly less pathetic miniature army. 

She is still uncertain logic is worth any, but she finds she quite appreciates it. 

She is almost pleased, this time, that she hasn't managed to cry once. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It was scary at first for me, too.” He says, his voice soft.

She doesn’t want to tell him she prefers these nightmares a millionth times over the images of her nephew’s blood. Over the imaginings of Fergus’s horror at finding out, or his cry of pain as a sword digs into his back. 

“Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate it.” 

She feels there’s going to be so little sympathy left to the world.

So she holds onto this.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Qunari accused of murder, a chantry sister (bard?) who chitchats with the Maker (quite capricious, then, the Maker), an apostate, and an Antivan assassin. Alistair probably didn't process it in those terms. She still sees it as a matter of practicality. 

And maybe, she thinks losing everything and falling "morally" are ultimately quite the same thing. She also thinks there can't be such thing as falling and lows, because she didn't cry and is putting a foot in front of the other, and even if she cried, it would be, rather, an accomplishment. 

And she looks at them and she can forgive herself, not because there are worse people than her, but rather because there are no bad people at all. They are all just grasping for purpose. And even Howe is a pitiable sad little creature full of greed. 

She is still going to kill him. 

There is nothing idealistic about this. 

But then Alistair will make cynicism the most enjoyable of pursuits, with his quippy remarks and humorous air. She figures tragedy and struggle and evil can have their pink shade too.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m a bastard!” He says, and she is already smiling in anticipation. But then he says “fatherless” and she feels the careful mask of court neutrality sliding into place. She blinks, tries to shrug it off, but she doesn’t know how to, since she doesn’t know what other expression she would take. Alistair doesn’t seem to notice.

By the end of that conversation she has blacklisted Isolde, somewhere deep and resentful in her soul along with many other pains.

This man made her soul feel the age it was supposed to be. Defending his was now a priority.

This is how gratitude works.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By this point, he has spoken often enough of the Chantry and their malicious little manipulations that it makes her wonder what she knows of the Maker.

The Chantry, she realizes, is the only source of knowledge on the Maker.

The ever-silent Maker, who would, maybe, perhaps, talk to Leliana, but not to her. The Maker who would not justify death. The Maker, with his Chant of Light.

Blessed are the Peacekeepers, Champions of the Just.

She knows some things about what her family was and had always been. She knew, now, exactly what Howe was. 

This is how she loses faith. 

For a second she feels alone in an enormous world, and then she glances at Alistair, at the trees, at the sky. Realizes she doesn’t know nothing about anything.

And it feels better, because tragedy is as nonsensical as everything else.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and… everything. I’m sorry.”

He’s almost rambling, and she wants to laugh at the irony of it all because she still hasn’t cried.

She’s glad he did.

“There’s no need to apologize.”

Duncan, he says he said, is from Highever.

Alistair wants to go to Highever.

The world freezes.

When he asks, she shuts him out.  
A part of her thinks it would feel like a competition. “Ah yes, your Duncan- and my-”

A bigger part of her cannot imagine how she would even begin.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The word “King” leaves his mouth and she knows she is looking him all over, suddenly. She knows her eyebrows are slightly higher and her eyes bigger. 

And then she chuckles, it leaves, there it is, her amusement in the wind. 

It means a lot of things, politically, she knows. She grew up being drilled about these things. 

But this, and she can say it with security, doesn’t matter at all. 

“A royal bastard, then?”

He laughs, breathless and relieved. 

He thinks the throne is not even a possibility for him.

She resists the urge to point out that possibility is exactly what makes him an “inconvenient truth.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She’ll die young.

She figures it was going to happen anyway, is a less than glorious battle, before such thing as tradition ever gets to do the job.

She thought she was going to die when she opened the door to find men in swords. 

She wasn’t sure she cared when she left her home.

She’ll survive well enough, knowing this.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She keeps making choices.  
She is good at it.  
And Alistair is a soft soul.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is so happy about the amulet.  
It’s a silly thing but she is happy too.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He gives her a rose.

A rose of all things. 

Something beautiful in a world full of despair and ugliness.

She thinks about this shy boy who makes her laugh and reminds her about what it is to be grateful and makes her feel happy and alive when everything is so… wrong.

And the metaphor is about her, of all people.

She is the one supposed to be the rare beacon to ward off the darkness.

She holds the petals delicately and smiles fondly at him.

What a hypocrite. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She jokes about taking him up on those steamy bits.

She is not joking at all.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He asks where her home is, now.

As a Grey Warden, she says, with him.

Glaring that he is the only other Grey Warden for miles.

His eyes wrinkle at the corners and it’s the sweetest look he’s ever given her.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She sinks a blade into his gut, because she fights better.

Howe dies, and that’s that. 

“I deserved more!” is his dying cry.

She smiles wryly.

Yes, he deserved to die by a thousand cuts. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is not a greater feeling of nothingness in vengeance, the one talked about in the more reputable books. And while vengeance is a part of what this is, she can’t deny, this is mostly about freeing her childhood home. Now the ghosts can roam in peace. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Goldanna makes it into her blacklist too. 

She asks for money, of all things, and she wants to wrangle her neck. A part of her wants to wrangle his neck too. 

She hoped- she doesn’t know, something wholesome. She thinks of Fergus, of him holding her as a little girl as she cried.

She knows she is somewhere past being a girl now.

Alistair looks at her with his soft eyes.

“You need to learn to take care of yourself.” She says, instead of the other idea that swims around her head, because it’s not about making the world an enemy.

Simply a bit of a desolate place. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So… I fooled you, did I? Good to know.”

She is so embarrassed that just as they’re about to kiss, he says that, and she laughs in his face. But the words are so random and incomprehensible, and the timbre of his voice went so unnaturally deep. She doesn’t need gallant seduction, she wants to explain at his bewildered expression. She bites her lip, then she puts her hands behind his neck, and she kisses him with fierce adoration. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leliana asks how he is in bed, and it really isn’t her place to say. She is the only one in the world who knows, yes, but her man is shy and sweet and not to be exhibited.

Morrigan asks in her own roundabout way, which includes insult, and she is the tiniest bit weary of her now. 

Wynne wants to infect their happy little bubble with cynicism, the bad kind, and she tries real hard not to be angry. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alistair, Alistair, a king. She asks him, he is sure. She gets to say it. She says it. 

He comes to her after, doubtful and determined to explain why she can’t be his queen, his wife. “…duty as king.”

She takes his hand and yanks him to a more secluded room. 

She’s been careful not to influence him but. 

She likes that he gets to have his own opinions, but honestly.

Fuck it.

She doesn’t wait for him to finish. She takes him and devours his mouth. 

“You’re not going to end this over some politicking. I’m noble born, you know that. They won’t care, they don’t know.” 

“But-”

“We’ll solve it, as we always do.”

Then she jabs her gaze into his.

“Unless there is a single doubt in your mind about what this is about. If you think I’m using you to be a queen, then feel free to send me far far far away. I’m not standing for it otherwise.”

He looks at her, apprehensive, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think that but…” 

“I love you. Do you love me?”

His eyes shine. “Always.”

“They called Anora a barren queen and were still almost about to appoint her. This isn’t something we need to worry about until ten years down the line, and we have thirty to go. We will solve it.”

She pecks his lips.

“Tell me you don’t want me, but I won’t stand for it otherwise.”

His hands tangle in her hair.  
“I’m a weak, weak man.”

He kisses her back.

Wynne was wrong.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wynne is right. 

One of them will die.  
She wants to cry. She still can’t.

Morrigan comes and talks and now she understands why she wanted to know how Alistair was in bed.

This- she doesn’t pressure him into this. She tells him the facts, that with this, they’ll both live. She didn’t care as much before, but she wants to be with him. They may succeed now, something that, once upon a time, she had hardly hoped at all. He says he’ll do whatever she thinks is best. “I want us to be together,” she says, like a breathy confession. “But it is your choice.”

She leaves him alone after that. She doesn’t want to know what his choice is. 

She doesn’t tell him she won’t let him die, because then it’ll be a competition, one he’ll do everything to win. She can’t let him win. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They are on top of the tower.

And she, she’s hurt. Her leg. The damn dragon is right there. She can’t move fast enough. He kisses her and she’s desperate. Stop, please. Stop. His sword sinks into the archdemon’s head, and she screams.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She’s tired. She’s tired, and there’s so many people and- 

And that-

That-  
That’s Fergus.

That’s Fergus. 

She doesn’t know the tears are there until they are dripping to the floor. She lets him engulf her into an embrace and she sobs. She wails, loud, like she didn’t know she could. Her frame quakes. She can’t breathe. 

She doesn’t understand how life can affect her worse than death. 

She cries.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read, thank you so much.
> 
> This work has a bit of my heart incrusted in there.


End file.
